


Reconciliation

by Drakochan



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 14:28:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4749815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drakochan/pseuds/Drakochan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Altaïr has some concerns about what all the death is for, and goes to his long-time friend Malik with an offering of peace and looking for some guidance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reconciliation

It wasn't the same as when they had been young and foolish, when slipping away from training could be excused as a game, so long as they weren't caught at it. Staring across the desk at Malik, the harsh words of their last parting replayed in his mind. 

_"It seems everything I do troubles you."  
"Reflect on that."_

He had. It had gnawed at his thoughts on the journey back to Masyaf, making his sleep restless and the days fading into a haze of backtracking and shortcuts, in an effort to avoid suspicious guards, then make up the time. And yet he was back here, inane missions that had naught to do with his true goals, with the goals that had been set to him by Al Mualim. The goals that would restore him to his standing in the Order and, perhaps, allow him to repair these broken ties of brotherhood.

"What brings you here? Another man to be killed?" Malik's scathing tone as he lifted a book with his single hand, shooting Altair a wry look. It almost hurt more that Altair saw no emotion in that gaze than if he had found hatred or anger. None of that, just a creased brow, and eyes that quickly looked away, but not before Altair had noticed the lines. There was an age to his face that their similar years did not warrant. Altair felt his brows crease, and his gaze shifted momentarily to the sleeve pinned up, advertising his missing arm.

Altair dropped his gaze to the desk, with the maps and the compass set aside, Malik's untidy handwriting scrawled across scraps of seemingly whatever he could find. Altair set the message scroll on the surface, fingers pressing against the paper for just a moment, and then he stepped back.

"Would that I were, I'd have an excuse to walk away," he said in a low tone, and immediately regretted the words, seeing Malik's shoulders tense, the way his fingers curled into a fist briefly as he turned and shot Altair a glare. "I meant no offense," he added hastily, and ran his hand through the short strands, damp with sweat from the heat of the day.

"You are as ever lacking in basic communication, Novice," Malik snapped back, and picked up the scroll, flipping it open and scanning its contents efficiently

"Please…" Altair could hear the strain in his own voice. "Don't call me that," he finished lamely, and glanced up, catching Malik's gaze. Their eyes were locked for only a moment, but there were so many things that should have been said in that infinite space… Altair's pride refused to allow him to apologize, though it simmered below the surface, and though he would normally never look away from a challenge, there was a deep sadness that he could not bear to see in his rival's face.

Oh, yes, they had been fiercely competitive, and Altair had thrived in that. Here, he felt wanting, as he had never felt before in the other's presence. Before, he had been too full of pride, the other too coarse. Yet Malik still had harsh words, and rightly so. It was he who had changed. 

The smile pulled at his lips, and the confusion on Malik's face was apparent. "Do you remember when we skipped our swordplay lessons in favor of hiding in the stables?"

Malik's confusion did not fade, but he replied, more a question than anything, "Yes, and in our panic to escape, we loosed the horses, and every recruit and master assassin alike were in the streets chasing the beasts down… What of it?"

"I miss the days when we were so easy in one another's company."

The silence stretched, broken only by the calling of the street vendors hawking their wares echoing in the heat of the afternoon, and the hum of people going about their business. It was another world, one that had no tension singing in the air. No history of broken friendships.

The last thing Altair expected was the firm grip of Malik's fingers closing around the leather strap across his chest, jerking him forward until his hips hit the edge of the counter, and Malik's face was close, eyes searching Altair's.

"Do not speak of things that cannot be. You assured that with your actions in the Temple of Solomon, and hereafter…" There was not as much conviction in his voice as his tone suggested.

"Nothing is true," Altair began, but could not finish the phrase, because he was fighting for balance as Malik pulled him further forward. The kiss was as awkward as any hurried ones they'd snatched in their training days, bruising force and not much finesse, a clash of lips and teeth and vying for control. And then it was over, and Malik stepped back, scowling at Altair as he ran a thumb over his lips.

There were no words left in Altair's mind, and he glanced around, hoping in vain that maybe something in this room would supply him with some kind of answer.

"Don't dare to lecture me on the Creed, Altair, until you've learned what those words mean. Even in jest, even in an attempt to bring me back to the days when I happily called you brother, and friend. Get out of my sight."

Before Altair could act on those words, Malik snatched the scroll off the counter, and stalked into the narrow doorway behind the table, the cloth door swinging in his wake, leaving Altair standing dumbly in the center of the room, jaw slack as his mind still reeled. Was that truly all that was left for them? Harsh words? Or had that meant something more? 

He did not leave, as was probably Malik's intent with the harsh dismissal, instead settling into a corner where a pile of pillows sat forgotten, if the stale smell of dust was anything to go by.

Hours passed, and there were sounds of habitation from the back room, shuffling and mumbling of words uttered to oneself when one thinks they are alone. Altair didn't find it amusing as he once might have, instead taking in the normalcy of it. When Malik appeared again from the curtained back, it was obvious he was not expecting Altair to still be there, as he froze in place.

"Is there anything else you need? I thought I told you to get out of my sight. If you must linger, at least do it out there," he muttered, waving towards the other half of the open area, where the latticed rooftop cast delicate shadows across cushions far more worn than these, and sun-bleached from their bright tones. 

Altair didn't argue, merely stood and strode from the room, settling onto the other cushions, but there were still those sounds of activity from within. His mind lingered on the details, the surprise and momentary embarrassed flush of Malik's face before he'd schooled himself back to impassivity. The muttering had stopped, too.

The heat of the day abated slowly as the sun set, the call for evening prayer loud and clear across the rooftops, beautiful and entrancing. The dark of night settled some time after that, and the scuff of shoes on the ground drew Altair from his thoughtful gaze up through the rooftop to the stars above.

"Are you hungry? I do not have much but… You have not moved from that spot since this afternoon." Malik's gaze darted away as Altair's eyes met his, and he offered a shrug. "Al Mualim would not take it kindly if I starved you out while you were under my jurisdiction in Jerusalem."

Altair shifted, finally stood, brushing the dust off the long white cloak that marked him Assassin. "It would be an honor. My thanks."

A small nod was all the reply Malik offered, then he turned and disappeared around the corner. Through the narrow doorway covered in cloth, there was a messy room full of maps and scrolls, information gathered by the other novices active in the city, and beyond that, a humble but comfortable living space. The scent of incense that was pervasive in the Assassin's record areas was replaced by the smell of a strong tea, and spices that made Altair's mouth water despite his best attempts.

A dish sat ready but untouched, meaning Malik had stopped to come and fetch him before actually eating. Altair felt the corner of his lips tug into a small smile, which he ducked his head to hide as he sat down at the table. "I did not know you had skills like this."

"When one is without a wife to cook for him, a man must find his way on his own. It is nothing like what you would have in Masyaf, but it will suffice."

The second dish slid into Altair's gaze where he was peering at the table, trying not to stare at the surrounding room, to see what Malik called home away from Masyaf. A slight nod of thanks, and they ate in relative quiet.

There was no space for small talk of weather and family between Assassins. Their talk consisted usually more along the lines of who was slated to die, eagle feathers, and methods. Nothing suited for a quiet evening between two friends—dare he call them that even?

"Altair," Malik said suddenly, breaking the silence. "We were like brothers once. That is why… Why I suggested we bring Kadar along to Solomon's temple as our third man. I thought if he were to be the best, he should learn from the best. From you." A long pause followed that, one Altair dare not break. "You were always prideful and arrogant of your skills, but it was because you had proven yourself worthy of considering yourself such. I almost died that day, and I lost the only family I knew."

"Malik… I was a fool, to think we… _I_ could take on Robert de Sable that day. I do not think I have ever truly apologized for my actions that day. " And he would not have, before. Arrogant and sure that his way was always correct. It surprised him not at all now that it bred such resentment, looking back on who he was then. "I hope to think that I have changed for the better, come to realize my pride. I am truly sorry, Malik." He almost spoke again in the silence following his words, mentioning his concern about the marks that Al Mualim had given him. Six men died at his hands thus far, and three left to redeem himself to Al Mualim and the assassins. Malik spoke instead before he could gather his thoughts.

"It surprises me that you would admit that. But I have seen it in you. Your last mission here to the city, you were humble and accepting of your task, not demanding I give you the information you sought. Your apology is appreciated."

"I have changed."

"You have," he agreed quietly. There was a silence in the room, the faint sounds of the city, even after dark, filtering through the windows. A breeze fluttered the fabric covering them, and Malik sighed. "I have extra bedding if you need a place to sleep, not out on those dusty pillows."

"I've been in more discomfort in other situations, I will be fine there."

"I would be a poor friend indeed not to insist otherwise." Altair dared to look up, and there was something not quite a smile on Malik's face. "Come, I do not have much space here, but there is enough for both of us."

Altair offered a rare smile in response, and shrugged his defeat. "I would be ungrateful to decline, at this point."

"Which is the idea," Malik retorted with a scoff, and rose to his feet, as graceful as he was when he had been an Assassin, and not reduced to desk duty. Altair felt a pang of guilt at the promise that had been lost, and all his fault…

He trailed a few paces behind, and helped where he could, finally settling down across from where Malik lay, his mind spinning too fast for sleep, though he heard Malik's breath even and slow as he slipped into sleep.

Eventually, the deep dark of unconsciousness overtook him, and he dreamed of their days as novices together, of the day they'd released the horses, when things were still good, and there was no resentment. It was followed by a troubling dream of strange connections, of the things the men he'd killed said before they passed, of a brighter future and greater powers at work. He would not ask Malik just yet, but perhaps, if the crevice in their relationship could be fixed… Perhaps he had someone to confide his concerns after all.

When he woke, there was no strange tension, and it felt almost like being back in training, rooming with a friend, sharing a breakfast in the rising heat of the day.

"I should go back to Masyaf. Do you need anything taken there?"

"No, the city has been quiet since your last mission."

Altair led the way back through the small residence, out into the incense-heavy air of the main room, a map still laying on the table with Malik's scribbling on it.

"Safety and peace, Malik."

There was a slight pause, then a hand closed on Altair's shoulder. "And on you as well. Until your next mission, Altair." 

It was almost reflex, his hand going to cover Malik's on his shoulder, the slight nod he offered in reply, then a hesitant half-step forward, leaning in to press a tentative kiss in farewell. Before Malik could possibly react, he stepped away, eyes on the ground as he tugged his hood back up over his face, and dashed up the wall to the rooftops, and away, beating heart pounding in his ears and drowning out the sounds of the city.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this because I have such a weak spot for this ship but I also wanted to explain how these two went from being so cranky at one another to being such buddies the next time you visit Jerusalem in the game.


End file.
